


Digestif

by SingingShantiesAllTheWay



Category: Rusty Quill Gaming (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Alternate Universe - Vampire, Blood Drinking, Character Turned Into Vampire, Consensual, Gen, Human/Vampire Relationship, Platonic Female/Male Relationships, Vampire Bites, this is NOT a ship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-18
Updated: 2020-10-18
Packaged: 2021-03-09 05:07:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,287
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27089101
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SingingShantiesAllTheWay/pseuds/SingingShantiesAllTheWay
Summary: Sasha, coming to grips with a new version of herself, occasionally needs a little help from a friend. Wilde is happy to provide.
Relationships: Sasha Racket & Oscar Wilde
Comments: 22
Kudos: 46





	Digestif

**Author's Note:**

  * For [yakyuu_yarou](https://archiveofourown.org/users/yakyuu_yarou/gifts).



"Generally," Wilde said without looking up, and scrawled a lazy signature on the letter in front of him, " _I'm_ the one considered to be a prick."

There was silence behind him. He waited. Finally:

"...wot?"

He smiled.

"Fangs, Sasha. _Prick?_ Don't make me explain the other part of it, I'm not sure either of us are ready for that conversation."

He didn't hear her move - of course he didn't; he couldn't when she was alive and he was certainly not going to be able to now that she wasn't - but did, he felt, an admirable job of not jumping out of his skin when a skinny finger poked him in the shoulder.

"That was dreadful, Wilde," she told him.

"Everyone's a critic." His voice was steady, far steadier than he felt, and Wilde gave brief, silent thanks for small mercies. Sasha'd be distraught if she thought he was afraid of her, and in truth, he _wasn't_. But anticipation and instinct made a strange and heady cocktail. "Heading out, then?"

"Yeah." Sasha sounded like she was going to say something else, and didn't. Wilde put down his pen and turned in his chair, and looked up at her.

Death hadn't changed her much, really.

"You don't have to ask," he told her softly. "But you _can_."

"I know." She didn't say anything else, didn't move, except to stuff her hands in her pockets and glare down at the floor under her boots, and Wilde quietly held out a hand.

"Before you go," he said, "have a nightcap."

Not his _best_ work, but it did the job. Sasha rolled her eyes and after a hesitation put her hand in his.

(She was so _cold_ now, but he was getting used to it.)

Wilde gently tugged her hand to draw her closer. "You'll feel better for it," he said quietly. With his free hand, he opened a drawer in his desk and pulled from it a clean, folded handkerchief, and this he put on the desk within reach. "You know you will, and you _know_ I don't mind-"

Sasha snorted and let him tug her down to sit across his legs, a positioning that they had found, through trial and error, resulted in the least risk of actual injury for either of them (the first time, they'd both been standing, and Sasha'd nearly wrenched her shoulder out of socket trying to catch him when he collapsed. They'd learnt from the experience). "Don't _mind_ ; you're like a lush at the sideboard, mate."

An overstatement, but a friendly one, and with a grain of truth. Wilde _didn't_ mind, and in fact did indeed enjoy his ...donations.

Wilde granted her a wide smile, unashamed, and let go of Sasha's hand to unknot his cravat. He was keenly aware of Sasha's attention to his hands, and aware that it was in truth his throat beneath that she was watching, as though the removal of a scarf was the most salacious of exotic dances. Who knew a few square inches of bared skin could be so stimulating?

...all those odd gentlemen breathless and aghast over ankles, Wilde supposed, and dismissed that to the back of his mind to be forgotten. One oughtn’t kinkshame.

He couldn't help drawing out the performance as he unbuttoned his shirt collar, deliberately fumbling for a moment, and laughed when Sasha growled, "Get _on_ with it, mate," in mock threat.

(Oh, it did something to him, though, the inhuman harmonics wrapped around her familiar voice: something that tasted like fear in the back of his throat and felt like _wanting_ in his belly.)

Wilde made quick work of the last couple of buttons - there only needed to be a few unfastened, after all, just enough to give her access to his neck and to keep fabric out of the way - hopefully - of any potential mess. Bloodstains were the absolute devil to get out of good linen.

He could feel her attention sharpen when he lifted his chin a little. It didn't matter, really, how much distance people put between themselves and prehistory, something in the back of the brain still recognised a predator. He shivered, tamped it down, and gave Sasha a bright smile.

"Yes," he told her before she could ask, "I'm _sure_." Her mildly sulky annoyance when he beat her to the punch was gratifying.

Wilde closed his eyes and let his head fall back; fought down the instinct screaming at him that he was _exposed_ he was _vulnerable_ he was going to _die-_ it was only right about two of those things, and really, that was the point. He exposed himself (no puns, please) to Sasha, made himself vulnerable for her, because she _wouldn't_ hurt him, not in any lasting way, and there were precious few out in the world she roamed at night who could say that.

Not that he was doing this for _them_.

Sasha shifted on his lap, moving so she could reach, and Wilde forced himself not to tense. He pushed a slow and easy breath past his lips - more than a sigh, less than a hum. She was always so gentle with this, and he loved her for it.

The little kiss just above his pulse was expected, part of the ritual that this was becoming. It was a promise from Sasha (- _won't hurt you_ -); not that Wilde needed it, but Sasha did. Just as his response: an upward tilt of his chin, a last opening of himself in confirmation (- _I know_ -) was for him.

"Sorry, mate," she whispered, and this too was part of the ritual, an unnecessary apology that she would never, ever stop making, just before the twin agony of needle-sharp teeth sank through his skin.

Wilde hissed, gripped the arms of his chair hard enough to make the wood creak, and very carefully did. Not. Otherwise. Move. Because Sasha would _stop_ , would pull away for his sake and that would defeat the purpose of this entire exchange - and the pain, in any case, was momentary. Always was.

He felt exquisitely the slide of Sasha's teeth from his throat, felt the heat of his own blood as it spilled over his skin, felt Sasha's cold tongue a fraction of a second later, trapping the blood and sealing her mouth over the punctures, and he felt-

-oh _gods_ he felt-

-warmth, blossoming fever-bright low and deep in his belly, a swelling heat that licked up his spine, dragged voluptuous fingertips over every nerve ending, unfurled and suffused him, its root and base the alien pressure of a mouth at his throat, pulling against the working of his heart and making it falter, making his pulse jump and flutter and _strain_ and it was _perfect_ it was death without dying, and his only regret, his _only_ regret was that he would never be able to make the 'little death' joke to Sasha because she'd never let him feel this again -

Dimly, Wilde was aware of the pressure easing ( _no please don't sto-_ ) and weight rising from his lap ( _don't, please sta-_ ) and cold hands, gentler than one might guess and far, far stronger, easing him down in his chair so that his head - lolling and heavy with fatigue and drowsy with gorgeous hedonism - could rest supported against the chairback. He was aware of pressure at his throat - different pressure, not the inescapable, predatory drain of his blood, but a push of clean, soft cloth against the small wounds, stemming the flow, letting healing hook in.

"Cheers, mate," Sasha's voice brushed against his ear, and he managed a small, shaky smile.

"Always happy," he whispered - painfully, with a throat as sore as it was dry, "to share an after-dinner drink with a friend."

**Author's Note:**

> This was one of those stories that was scribbled on a whim all in one go in Discord, and ended up actually being rather decent. A bit of cleanup and formatting and here we are.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Digestif [podfic]](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27609425) by [KD reads (KDHeart)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/KDHeart/pseuds/KD%20reads)




End file.
